Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  down a couple of Martha’s

  little helpers, suck

  in Jack Daniels as I turn on

  some tunes. Judas Priest,

  in honor of my little brother,

  whose taste in music

  skewed toward metal,

  maybe to make himself

  feel a little less gay. Did

  Luke realize Priest’s lead

  singer was also gay?

  I sit on my bed, waiting

  for the hallowed buzz

  to descend, eyes closed

  in thought about this

  evening’s revelations.

  I think about calling

  Vince, but what would

  I say? “Hey, buddy,

  I know it’s been almost

  a year since I talked

  to you, but I just found

  out you were telling me

  the truth all along. Sorry

  I didn’t believe you, but . . .”

  But What?

  But this: I needed someone

  to blame, and he was the logical

  choice, if you can even attach

  the word “logic” to the emotional

  battle I found myself embroiled

  in. Still, why would I assume

  someone I’d been friends with

  forever would have betrayed

  my trust in such a horrible way?

  I certainly never assumed

  my loving-but-considering-

  breaking-up-with-me girlfriend

  might have been involved,

  even if she didn’t mean to. Like

  who wouldn’t know telling

  Jo-ce-lyn anything is tantamount

  to announcing it to the world?

  Dave Holland launches his epic

  “Painkiller” drum solo and K. K.

  Downing joins in on lead guitar.

  And now Rob Halford’s crazy

  lyrics—half man and half machine—

  make me want to kill my own pain.

  One More Pill

  Could only help,

  right? Down it goes

  with a hot gulp of

  whiskey. Ga! Nasty,

  but likely to do the trick.

  I turn off the light,

  embrace the cool hug

  of darkness. In spite

  of the frenetic music

  in my ears, my body

  relaxes and my brain

  begins a slow whirl.

  We’re such different

  people. That’s sure

  the fuck true. Love

  isn’t enough. Maybe

  not for you. I think

  it’s for the best. Right.

  Screw you. So sorry.

  Kind of late for that.

  You were with me

  when . . . My choice.

  Guilt.

  Blame.

  A Crash of Cymbals

  Wakes me. Cymbals? Shit!

  Judas Priest in endless loop, all

  night long? I’m probably brain

  dead. I yank off the headphones,

  sit up in bed, or at least try to.

  There’s more than drums pounding

  in my head. There’s a goddamn

  sledgehammer! The air reeks

  of Jack Daniels and nightmare

  sweat, though I can’t remember

  dreaming. Probably a good thing.

  Now yesterday reincarnates,

  good, awful, and hideous—bikes,

  breakup, and ball-bashing

  confession—in quick succession.

  Two years ago, my life wasn’t

  perfect, but it was a cakewalk,

  compared to what it’s become.

  All because of who Luke was—

  a fluke meeting of sperm and egg—

  and some people’s animalistic need

  to exploit perceived weakness

  in others. Wonder which instinct

  is stronger—survival of the fittest,

  or the hunger for sex. Speaking

  of that, I suppose my dad and Lorelei

  are sleeping off their own appetites.

  I slip down the hall to relieve

  myself, make it all the way back

  without hearing even a whisper

  anywhere in the house. Then I fall

  back into bed. Screw it. I have nothing

  to do today, and unconsciousness

  sounds better than breakfast with Dad

  and his girlfriend. There’s a little

  Jack left in the glass on my nightstand.

  I hold my nose, drink it down, hair

  of the dog, to ease me into sleep and

  turn off the jackhammering in my skull.

  It’s Dark

  When I wake up, driven

  from sleep into the velvet

  black sleeve of predawn

  morning by a dream so real

  I’m still breathing hard

  from running. I remember

  it start to finish. Fade in:

  Hayden and I are on a blanket

  looking up at an evergreen

  canopy. It’s an incredible July

  day, hot but not sweltering,

  and she is wearing short cutoffs

  and a pink tank top. I slide

  my hand over the smooth skin

  of her legs, push a little farther

  than I ever have before and

  she sighs into her laughter.

  I lean up on one arm, bend over

  to kiss her, and just as I do,

  my cell plays three bars

  of “Back in Black,” Luke’s

  designated ring tone. I almost

  don’t answer, but he knows

  I’m with Hayden and wouldn’t

  call if it wasn’t important.

  “Hold that thought,” I say to

  Hayden, who stares up at me.

  Expectantly, I think. I can’t wait

  to see just how far she might

  let me go, so when I respond

  to Luke, it is semi-impatiently.

  “Hey, bro. What’s up? I’m busy.”

  Hey, Matt? I love you. Not

  in a gay way, in case you think

  I’m also a perv. There’s more,

  and I hear it, but my attention

  is focused on my girl. Her skin.

  The female scent of her I’m

  suddenly aware of, one I want

  to dive into and swim around in.

  I Tell Him to Hang On

  I’ll be right there,

  But Hayden is here,

  inviting temptation,

  and I don’t pull myself

  away until afternoon

  fades toward dusk.

  She is everything to

  me in those two hours,

  and even though we never

  come close to shedding

  our clothing, what we

  do share is making me

  hard right here, alone

  in my bed. And I’m afraid

  to reach the end of this

  dream because I know

  what’s on the far side

  of the door, so I refuse

  to hurry. Refuse to run

  toward its inevitable

  conclusion. Fade out:

  I could have saved him.

  Three Hours Till Dawn

  And the comfort

  of daylight, I force

  myself to lie motionless

  beneath a threadbare sheet

  of night. One word

  pirouettes round and

  round the black space

  surrounding me. Blame.

  Blame. Blame. Blame.

  So easy to affix blame

  to someone else.

  I blamed Dad

  for his steadfast refusal

  to accept what could not

  be changed. I blamed

  his
inexplicable homophobia.

  Where did he learn to hate?

  I blamed Mom

  for her aloofness,

  for wallowing in resentment

  over circumstances she sparked.

  If she’d only been more present,

  if she’d only opened her arms

  more often.

  I blamed Vince

  and Doug

  and Jocelyn

  and her miserable brother,

  who still deserves a pummeling,

  along with all his bastard friends.

  I blamed middle school

  for being a cesspool of nastiness.

  Blamed Luke’s teachers

  and principal and counselors

  for not doing their damndest

  to protect him from harm.

  I blamed the Bible,

  when its words were not at fault,

  only the way they’re interpreted

  by those too willing

  to wield them like chain saws,

  cutting others off at the knees.

  I blamed Hayden,

  once I knew what she’d done,

  maybe not as much as the others

  because, one: I didn’t have

  a lot of time to think about it.

  And, two: I still love her.

  Somehow I Avoided

  Blaming myself,

  at least consciously.

  Funny how the brain

  works. Can’t deal

  with it? Shut down.

  But now, every time

  I look in the mirror,

  I will recognize fault

  in the person I see.

  And he won’t be able

  to deny culpability.

  Now every dream

  will return me to that

  day, to that blanket,

  to Hayden, who in

  those hours was more

  important to me than

  discerning my little

  brother’s state of mind.

  And forever, I’ll know

  I was all that stood in

  the way of Luke kicking

  over that chair. I failed

  him, and he’s dead.

  The Sky Pales

  Coaxing me out from under

  the covers. Well, that, and my empty

  stomach. I didn’t eat at all yesterday.

  All I did was sleep. I lost an entire

  day to bad dreams and worse

  certainties. But now I’m starving.

  Too bad the kitchen is so disappointing.

  Mom’s the one who buys groceries,

  as evidenced by the dwindling staples

  in the pantry and toothless yawn

  of the fridge. All that’s in there is beer,

  a little milk, and some wilty carrots.

  There are waffles in the freezer,

  at least. I scarf four, sans butter,

  but heavy with the strawberry jam

  I find hiding out in a cupboard.

  By the time the third one hits my gut,

  I’m treated to a carb-and-sugar rush.

  It energizes my body, and my will.

  I find the notepad and pen Mom uses

  for her lists, write a note for Dad.

  Any chance you might buy a few groceries, or are you trying to starve me into submission? (Not working!)

  I’m going out to the range, where Uncle Jessie still awaits your promised visit. Why don’t you stop by after you drop off your girlfriend? It’s on the way home, you know. Oh, if you’ve forgotten how to get there, text me for directions.

  All my love,

  Your Only Son

  I Consider Where

  To put the note so he’ll see it.

  Refrigerator? Nah. Not unless

  he’s planning on beer for breakfast.

  Counter? Too random. I settle

  on taping it to the cupboard above

  the coffeemaker, the one with mugs

  for the French roast I’m sure he’ll

  brew. Or maybe Lorelei will make it

  for him. How housewifey is she?

  I’d like to skip the bathroom routine,

  but man, I totally reek. Even gunpowder

  couldn’t mask this B.O. I manage

  to scrub off the smell, dress, and slip

  out the front door without a Dad

  confrontation. It’s a crap day, slick

  and gray, kind of like my mood.

  I’ve got a couple of hours until

  Uncle Jessie will open the doors—

  it’s an inside shooting kind of day—

  so I drive on over to the Koffee Kup

  for a kup of koffee and some protein.

  I’m sipping my joe, waiting

  for my omelette, when who walks

  through the door with her parents,

  but Lex—A-lex-a. Three syllables.

  When she sees me, she says something

  to her mom, who nods a curt hello

  in my direction as Alexa comes

  over to my table. Hey. How’re you

  doing? Compassion dampens the bell

  of her voice. “You know? How?”

  Less than thirty-six hours

  from breakup to broadcast news.

  Her shoulders lift. Fall. The power

  of the Internet, you know? I never

  unfriended her, so she still shows up

  in my feed. Mostly, she was griping

  about her feet. She said you made her

  walk home from downtown in heels.

  “I made her? That’s rich. She was

  the one who chose Valentine’s Day

  to break up, in public, no less.”

  Even to Me

  That sounded bitter.

  I guess I am, but should I be?

  “Sorry. The wound is pretty

  raw yet. I’m sure it will scab

  over sooner or later, though.”

  I hope so. Well, I should

  get back to my parents.

  Mom’s giving me the “Hello,

  remember us?” look.

  You know how to get hold

  of me if you want to talk.

  Just so you know, I may be

  happy about it on a purely

  selfish level, but I’m sorry

  it happened like it did.

  Her fingers light softly,

  like moths, on my hand.

  It’s a gesture of sympathy,

  not invitation, and she leaves

  everything there, ball solidly

  in my court. She is all class.

  I like it. I like her.

  But I’m not ready to rebound.

  My Omelette Arrives

  I eat, thinking about girls

  and class and love. I always

  thought Hayden was classy,

  but in retrospect, her proclivity

  toward gossip and criticism

  tarnishes her halo. Of course,

  anger and hurt could very

  well be influencing my current

  opinion. Now another word

  drifts across my line of sight,

  like an eye floater against

  a sun-startled sky: Secrets.

  We are both guilty of keeping

  them, but while infidelity—

  a single lapse of judgment—

  was a breach of faith, the things

  Hayden kept from me were

  soul shattering. I thought I knew

  her, but I didn’t. All I knew

  was the person I wanted her to be.

  The girl I believed suited me,

  despite every fact to the contrary.

  Her halo was never gold, or it

  couldn’t have rusted so completely.

  I Arrive at the Range

  A little past nine. There’s only

  one other car in the parking lot—

  Gus’s old gas-guzzler. I grab />
  the Glock, head on inside the office,

  where Uncle Jessie is talking

  earnestly to his veteran pal.

  . . . to Eugene to get that barrel

  looked at. I’ve got a friend who’s

  a great smith. He knows his shit.

  I told him give it a thorough once-over.

  Kinda strapped for cash right

  now, answers Gus. My piece-

  of-crap car needs an engine

  rebuild and my rent just went up.

  No worries at all. I’ll cover it

  and you can pay me back when

  things turn around. Meanwhile,

  you can borrow one of my guns.

  Well . . . okay. But did you

  tell him Fiona was my grandpa’s

  gun? He’d better take real good

  care of her. She’s one of a kind.

  The Two Go Off

  In search of a gun for Gus to use.

  Pretty sure it won’t have a name,

  especially not one like “Fiona.”

  Did Gus name that rifle, or did

  his grandfather? Was the older

  gentleman a little off, too?

  I grab some safety glasses and ear

  protection, make my way out into

  the big cement building that houses

  the indoor range. People will show

  up eventually, so I choose the farthest

  of the eight lanes, preferring to have

  only one person shooting beside

  me. I spend a half hour wasting

  ammunition, and just as I’m reloading,

  Gus appears with a pistol similar

  to mine. He settles in two stalls

  away, but before he loads up,

  he turns, signals for me to take

  off the earmuffs. Your uncle

  says you’re a crack shot. That so?

  I Guess I’m All Right

  That’s what I tell him, and

  that leads to a shooting match

  of sorts. “Of sorts,” because

  I’m no match for Gus, at least

  not today. Though he claims

  to be a much better shot with

  a long gun, Uncle Jessie’s Glock

  is no match for him either.

  Every bullet strikes the heart

  of the target in a beautiful

  round pattern, while most of

  mine fly high or wide on either

  side. I’m happy enough just

  to hit the paper. Our magazines

  empty and we come up for air.

  “Wow, I kind of suck today.

  Not sure what my problem is.”

  He studies me curiously.

  What’re you holding inside?

  “Wha-what do you mean?”